


Doctor/Patient

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In their army days, Watson wants to cure Moran, but maybe really that's impossible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor/Patient

   Watson has blood on his hands, but for him it’s more literally then metaphorically speaking. When he looks at the man standing beside him, with those deep-set blue eyes watching him intently and a bit warily, he doesn’t think he can say the same of that fellow. Colonel Moran is perhaps already half-mad and there are dark rumours circulating about him. He’s loyal to those alongside him and even protective of those below him, but he’s got a low tolerance for many of those above him or anyone who thinks they’re better than him. Watson thinks maybe it won’t be that long before something happens and Moran turns from a soldier who merely kills because that’s his job into a cold-blooded murderer. One day something is going to provoke him and the colonel will snap and whoever is standing opposite him at that moment won’t survive it, and he’ll probably only spiral downwards from there.

   Watson hopes he doesn’t snap; hopes the colonel lives a long and happy life, not ends it in a few years swinging on the end of a noose, but he suspects that some things are inevitable. He merely hopes that he can make a tiny bit of difference to Moran; that maybe a little kindness can divert him off his self-destructive, and destructive, path.

   Watson rinses the blood of a wounded soldier off his hands now and smiles to himself as Moran approaches him, slipping around behind him.

   “You busy?” Moran says, his lips close to Watson’s ear, as his hands snake around Watson’s waist.

   Maybe letting Moran close and having his back to the man even is not a wise thing to do, but Moran has no quarrel with him. Though he mocks Watson sometimes for having – as he calls them – ‘airs and graces’, Watson does think the colonel is fond of him. As fond as Moran can get anyway.

   “I have to clean up, Colonel,” Watson answers, but Moran isn’t put off. He’s already kissing the back of Watson’s neck while his hands slide down Watson’s torso.

   “Later,” he says. “I need your attention, Doctor.”

   “Ah, I see.” Watson shakes the water off his hands and twists around in Moran’s hold to face him. “You require medical aid. So, what precisely is the nature of your problem?”

   “My problem,” Moran says, nudging Watson back against the sink, “is this.” He gestures downwards.

   Watson looks down and suppresses a smirk. “Yes, I could see why that would become, ah, problematic.”

   “Think you can give me something for it, Doctor?” Moran pushes close against him and Watson gasps a little as the bulge in Moran’s trousers presses against his own growing erection.

   “Yes, well, perhaps I could…” His voice comes out slightly strangled as Moran rubs against him. “Find you some medicine,” he says, before Moran clamps his mouth over Watson’s for several moments.

   Watson kisses him back, dipping his tongue into Moran’s mouth while he slips his hands around to grab Moran’s backside.

   “Don’t want medicine,” Moran tells him when he pulls away, his lips reddened and wet with saliva now. “I need a more… hands on approach.”

   “So you think you, the patient, know better than me, the doctor, do you?” Watson enquires.

   “I do.”

    “So if I said that you required medicine and I was obliged to administer it anally, you would protest?” Watson arches an eyebrow at him, and Moran chuckles.

   “You’ve a dirty mind on you, Doctor.”

   “No worse than yours.”

   “Maybe not.” Moran catches his hand and slides it down, closing Watson’s fingers over his straining fly. “Just touch me.”

   “Ah, no; I think you need to get on the table so I can examine you,” Watson says, pulling his hand away. He catches Moran by his forearms and pushes him back, over towards the table.

   Moran growls at him, but it’s in an amused sort of way. “Doctor.”

   “On the table.”

   “What are you plotting?”

   “I merely think you should be lying down for this… examination.”

   “You ain’t sticking a thermometer up my arse; I know you doctors and your strange little games.” Moran hops up onto the table anyway and sits there, swinging his feet.

   Watson stares at him, wondering if he should take ‘thermometer’ literally or not. “Lie back,” he says.

   Moran watches him for a moment before he acquiesces, lifting his legs up; swivelling around to place his booted feet upon the table. When he does Watson slides over him, so he straddles the colonel’s body. His knees are pressed either side of Moran’s hips and as he brushes Moran’s cheek; trails his fingers through Moran’s hair, he can’t help thinking that Moran almost looks… afraid?

   He can’t be. Moran isn’t afraid of anything. He’s charged into battle fearlessly; he’s crawled down a drain after a wounded and vicious tiger. Yet when Watson crouches over him and gently cups his chin and even more gently places another kiss upon his lips… he looks wary.

   “Doctor, cease this playing and get on with it,” he says, and he reaches for the buttons of Watson’s trousers now.

   Watson is about to protest this as being too forward but then Moran slips his hand inside and  _squeezes_  and Watson forgets about everything for a moment – everything but the feel of Moran’s hand around his manhood anyway.

   He’s crouched there, lips parted, breath catching in his throat as Moran strokes and pumps and moves his thumb in a particularly ingenious way. The colonel’s hands are calloused in ways Watson supposes come from handling weapons frequently, but not unpleasantly so (actually, it feels good, and the colonel clearly knows what he’s doing when he touches Watson).

   “Doctor,” Moran says, and he’s not quite begging but there’s a pleading note in his tone even so. “Come on, touch me.” He catches Watson’s wrist with his free hand.

   Watson lets Moran tug his hand down but there he undoes the buttons of Moran’s trousers himself. Moran practically hisses with pleasure into his ear when Watson finally does begin to caress him.

   They are not quite working in perfect synchronicity together as they stroke each other; there’s a discordant note in the rhythm and Moran fucks like he does everything else – fast and a bit wild; a bit reckless; like he doesn’t think he’ll be around much longer and he has to get everything over with before his candle is snuffed out. Watson might think it rather tragic – that this bold, intelligent man who has so much to give is so obviously damaged; that though proud he seems to question his own worth always, and that he’s so clearly afraid of getting too close to anyone – except he’s not really capable of rational thought right now. It hardly matters that they’re not quite attuned anyway, does it? The end result is the same.

    When Moran comes, shuddering into orgasm beneath him, Watson seals his mouth over the colonel’s, almost but not quite silencing him.  Moran’s beard is rough against his own bare cheek when he comes himself, opening his mouth in a strangled, near-soundless gasp as he twists his face slightly away from Moran’s.

   When it’s over they lie there panting, Watson slumping over Moran, his face pressed against the colonel’s throat, so close he can feel his racing pulse. They’re both in an unpleasantly sweaty and somewhat sticky state now, but Watson can’t make himself care about that. He cares more that Moran is obviously going to run at any moment and so he savours every second where the colonel is still close to him; where he can merely lean over, like  _this_ , and gently kiss his lips. While he can hear the colonel’s breathing slow and feel his heartbeat begin to return to normal.

   He doesn’t call him Sebastian; not even Moran. Both seem wrong, somehow, even though he wants to call him both; either; anything but by his rank. There is much else he’d like to say to him, but doesn’t. It wouldn’t be welcomed. Moran would cut him off with coldness or sneering words and probably would never come near him again.

   “Well, Doctor?” Moran says, and he looks amused.

   Watson props himself up one elbow to regard Moran. “Well what?”

   “Am I cured now?”

   “Well, for now, certainly.” Watson sits up and looks around for something to wipe off the worst of the mess.

   Moran too sits up, and they’re still close – not quite touching, but close. Moran has not stayed this long beside him after sex before.

   “Of course, if the problem reoccurs… I would advise you to come and seek further treatment from me immediately.” Watson flashes him a grin as he procures a rag and uses this to wipe first himself, then Moran.

   Moran laughs. “Oh I will do, Doctor.”

   “Do you promise?” Watson asks, and suddenly it seems important – getting Moran to promise him something –  _anything_  - even though it’s not what he wants Moran to promise him at all (Don’t die. Don’t destroy yourself. Don’t run away every time anyone tries to show the merest bit of love for you).

   Some of the amusement in Moran’s expression flickers out. Even that’s too much for him, it seems. “You think you can tame me, Doctor?” he asks, as Watson lowers his gaze, slightly embarrassed now. When Watson won’t look at him he lifts the doctor’s chin himself, forcing Watson’s gaze to meet his. “I’m an animal; I know that.”

   “In bed, maybe.”

   He laughs again, and Watson likes it when he laughs –  _really_  laughs; not the cynical, mocking laughter he usually reels out apparently as some manner of defence mechanism. “No, Doctor Watson, I’m under no illusions as to what manner of man I am. I’m not a good ‘un.”

   “You’re good. You’re a good soldier. A brilliant marksman.”

   “Maybe, but that doesn’t make me a good man, and I ain’t ever going to be one. We both know that.”

   Watson throws down the cloth and touches Moran – touches his face; holds him there, even though maybe he’s expecting Moran to fight the contact and rip away from him. He doesn’t. He stays there, looking into Watson’s eyes with such a fierce, intense look that it’s Watson who has to break eye contact then.

   “You are a good man, Doctor,” the colonel says to him. “Don’t let me drag you down with me.”

   “But I-”

   “Hush now.” Moran silences him with another kiss, and when it’s finished Watson has lost the urge to protest.

    He can’t save him – hasn’t got a hope in hell of directing Moran off the path he’s been on for too long. Maybe he’s known that all along really, but he had to try, didn’t he? Because he’s a doctor; because he wants to help people; to heal them. Whatever is wrong with Moran though, it’s not a gash or a broken leg; something he’d know how to fix.

   When Moran slides off the table and walks jauntily away, cigarette jammed between his teeth and humming something to himself, he doesn’t look back, and Watson lets him go without another word.

 


End file.
